


Jetskull

by squash1



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Banter, Fluff, M/M, Motorcycles, Soft!Adam, Soft!Ronan, this fic is a mess i'm so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 19:57:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16144409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squash1/pseuds/squash1
Summary: The one where Ronan dreams himself a motorcycle and Adam tries to get out of having to ride the death machine.





	Jetskull

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely dedicated to Felix, who is one of my favourite humans and also supplied the prompt "motorcycle and fluff" for this fic.
> 
> Messy, borderline plotless, and unbeta'd. Enjoy.

The thing is, Adam should have suspected that Ronan was up to no good whenever he was left to his own devices at the Barns. He should have seen the disaster coming from miles away, should have smelled it in the air when he stepped out into the crisp September morning to get into his car and drive home. Alas, he is always smarter in hindsight.

Beating himself up about it for too long isn’t really an option, though, because Ronan is standing right in front of him with all of his _Lynch_ -ness, which is to say with all of his stubborn recklessness, and a frosty blue motorcycle helmet tucked under the crook of his arm. This isn’t really what Adam was expecting to wake up to after his nap.

“Let’s go for a ride, Parrish,” Ronan says with a challenging scowl on his face. In his boots and leather gear, Ronan towers darkly above the couch Adam is reclining on.

“I would prefer not to die during my week off, thanks,” Adam says with cool sarcasm in an attempt to brush him off. Ronan doesn’t have to know that the idea of him driving a motorcycle is making Adam weak in the knees, and not in a good way.

“Come on, man,” Ronan says, lifting one leg and nudging Adam’s calf with the toe of his shoe, “It’s gonna be awesome.”

Adam pushes himself up on his elbows. His new position grants him a better view at Ronan’s outfit and he has to bite his lip to keep from smirking. Ronan looks criminally handsome in his biker jacket, and Adam is almost glad he doesn’t get to see his boyfriend every day when he’s at college. There is no way he would be able to focus on his studies as diligently with Ronan dressed like _that_ all the time.

“Nah, I’m good,” Adam says though a yawn. And the exhaustion still sits deep in his bones, but having spent almost an entire day at the Barns, away from his mid-terms and study groups and part-time jobs, has already made a large portion of it seep out of his body. Adam has found that there is nothing he loves more than the inherent quietness of the Barns, their peace and tranquillity. Of course, there was the occasional ruckus by courtesy of Opal or Chainsaw, or Opal chasing Chainsaw, or Ronan chasing Opal chasing Chainsaw, but Adam does appreciate being able to hear his own thoughts far-off from any metropolitan hustle and bustle.

“Please?” Ronan pouts, and Adam almost laughs out loud. Instead, he pushes himself up further until he sits on the sofa in a cross-legged position. After rubbing the remnants of sleep out of his eyes, Adam remarks, “I didn’t know that word was part of your vocabulary.”

“As if you don’t enjoy hearing me say it,” Ronan says, and Adam really can’t refute this statement. As beautiful and poetic Ronan’s concoctions of swear words usually are, Adam does like it when he employs a softer word choice.

 “You seriously dreamt yourself a motorcycle?” Adam says, laughing breathily into his palm as it ghosts over his tired features.

“Yup. And I want you to ride it.”

“I think the fuck not, Lynch,” Adam says. That’s the polite register out the window, then.

Ronan guffaws a glorious laugh, and an overwhelming rush of affection for him accumulates in Adam’s chest. Love for Ronan is always there, a constant warmth inside of him, but from time to time Adam is engulfed by it. The feelings sloshing around inside him swell under the influence of Ronan’s _Ronan_ -ness, which is to say under his ardent dedication; just as surely as the sea ebbs and flows.

Adam’s heart is at high tide. He’s looking up at Ronan through dazed eyes, flashes him a grin, and something within Ronan seems to shift. The mischievous lines of his face soften, and he sets the motorcycle helmet down on the coffee table before sinking into the sofa cushions next to Adam. “Had a good nap?” Ronan asks, lifting one hand to comb his fingers through what Adam can only guess to be a matted mess atop of his head. His body is positioned in a way that connotes confrontation, right knee bent and digging into the back of the couch whilst his elbow rests on the headrest in support of the hand playing with Adam’s hair. With anyone else, Adam would find this situation awkward and uncomfortable, a sense of impending doom in the shape of a difficult conversation would be settling in the pit of his stomach if it weren’t Ronan facing him. Still, Adam closes his eyes – not in order to avoid confrontation, but to relish in the soothing feeling of companionship.

“I feel like my bones have melted,” he admits, and Ronan laughs. Not his usual bark, though, but more of a snicker – one Adam has found to be reserved exclusively for a select few earthly beings: Ronan’s little brother, his dream companion, his pet raven, his best friend. Why on earth Ronan has chosen him to be part of that VIP list with all of them is beyond Adam.

“I was gonna wake you earlier but I figured you’d wanna sleep through your post-exams coma,” Ronan says, hand coming to a rest at the nape of Adam’s neck and pulling him closer until his head is tucked beneath Ronan’s chin, face pressed against his chest.

“Thanks, ‘preciate it,” Adam mumbles.

Ronan’s other hand circles around Adam’s midriff, the warmth of its palm pressing against Adam’s back in a soothing up-and-down motion. Against Ronan’s chest, Adam breathes in deeply, the muscles in his body relaxing as his lungs fill with the scent of laundry detergent, leather, and autumn.

“You been out working in the fields?” Adam asks, words muffled against Ronan’s shirt.

“Nah,” Ronan says, “Thought that was clear. I took my new baby out for a spin.”

“’Scuse me?” Adam asks, pushing himself out of the comfort of Ronan’s arms. The grimace he’s pulling is probably not a very elegant sight to behold.

But Ronan laughs again, which soothes that particular worry a bit.

“You’re still my number one, dipshit,” he says, pulling at Adam’s hair again. It’s less choppy than the last time Adam was home, and there’s more length to it; something Henry could be proud of. “Jetskull’s just new.”

“Jetskull?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re such a loser,” Adam laughs, but doesn’t really mean it. Or maybe he does, but out of his mouth it’s more of a term of endearment than anything else. Ronan really has rubbed off on him.

“Fuck you,” Ronan swears, a similar tenderness to his expletive as he pushes himself off the couch and grabs the helmet off the table. “Let’s go.”

He knocks his knuckles twice against the hard plastic surface. The helmet is cradled in Ronan’s arms in a way Adam has seen him hold Chainsaw.

“Ask Matthew or something,” Adam says dismissively, blowing past his anxieties about death machine induced injuries to annoy his boyfriend into letting him pass up on the opportunity of obtaining any.

“But I wanna ride with you, dickhead.”

“Yeah, not happening.”

“ _Aaadaaam_ ,” Ronan says, dragging out each vowel in an uncharacteristic whine. “You scared or something?”

“No,” Adam lies, and reaching out for the helmet. “Come and make out with me instead,” he says, pulling Ronan in by the gap left by the pushed-up visor.

“Do you really think you can distract me with that?”

“Of course I can.”

“I think the fuck not, Parrish.”

“Watch me.”

Technically, Ronan doesn’t watch as much as he physically witnesses Adam prove his point. Previous research on Adam’s part has shown that Ronan’s willpower to uphold a standpoint out of sheer pettiness is not a very tough nut to crack, especially not when faced with Adam’s excellent deflection skills. In fact, it has already started to fisson by the time Adam’s lips are on Ronan’s. The sound of the helmet landing on the floor with a thump is insignificantly ambient, as Adam’s thoughts are delightfully occupied by the notion of a verified hypothesis and the comforting weight of Ronan settling down on top of him.

They do not take Jetskull for a spin that evening. The motorcycle sits in the driveway whilst Adam exercises his diversionary manoeuvre; once in the living room and then two more times upstairs in the bedroom until both their stomachs growl and Ronan laughs about it, all throaty and superb.

“When you call your motorcycle ‘baby’, it kinda reminds me of Gansey, you know,” Adam points out later after wolfing down a mouthful of grilled cheese. He’s kicked the motorcycle helmet out of the way, gently, to squeeze himself between the sofa and the coffee table, and Ronan toes him in the thigh, also gently, presumably for ruining the mood.

“Fucker,” is all Ronan manages. His mouth stuffed with a bite of his own sandwich, making it sound more like _fuh-ah_.

This makes Adam’s heart swell again. In a weird way, the horribleness of the cold toe against his bare thigh, and how he doesn’t mind one bit even though he thinks feet are a bit gross, really does the trick. And Adam thinks that maybe he will entertain the idea of riding Ronan’s motorcycle on a later date. Maybe. If he dreams a crash-safe version. And if he promises to never toe-stab him again. Maybe. 


End file.
